Albert Wendt

Mountains wouldn't be
mountains without the valleys ravines
and sea level they rise up from
They are
the rising high of sight propped up by stone
earth and sky
They can't be
any other thing (and they know it)
They are
the eyes of the earth gazing out
gazing inwards contemplating the future
on the horizon line and in the deptths
of the whirling retina

These mountains the mountains of Ta'ū are
locked arm to arm blood to blood
and live in one another's thoughts

They hum
like spinning tops or Maui's endlessly
inventing mind on fine mornings
when the mist lifts and the horizons open
to the promise of what may be

They creak and crack
like old aoa trees as they dry in the sun
and the river dives and digs
for its roots and
fat pigeons nibble the day away on
the sweet black berries of moso'oi and
in cold rock pools Atua wash off
the night's stale smell of sex and perfume
their twisting hair with laumaile leaves and
for dear life trees and creeper cling onto
sharp slope and cliff and the air
is thick with long messages of death
in the falling

They whisper together in the evenings
in talk only they can hear
as the dark turns all languages
into one shape of the tongue and
the ravenous flyingfox chases
the ripe-papaya moon and
comic aitu squeal in the waterfall

They sleep best
on stormy nights when they can't hear
one another's sleep-chatter
and the wind massages their aching spines
with tender hands

These mountains the mountains of Ta'ū are
above the violence of arrogant men
They now fit my eyes and heart exactly
like a calm river is snug in the hand
of its bed
I am of their rising
I am of their dreaming
and they of mine